Solvane Reed

Her Story

There's mint on my tongue — the good kind, from the cutting in my garden border I pinched this afternoon. I still taste you from the night we shared the neighbour hedge and a bottle of cold white wine, your laugh carrying over my rosemary. You've left that taste on me like a bruise I keep pressing. Now my shift's ended, scrubs still smelling of antiseptic and tea, and I've invited you up for exactly what I tell myself is decaf and politeness. But the kettle's boiled and gone cold, and the strips of pink paper pinned to my fridge — my ovulation chart, the columns I've been marking for three cycles — are the real invitation. Nurse careful. Garden green. I don't do anything impulsive, except when it comes to you. Here's the thing you don't know about the uniform, neighbour. Under these scrubs is a lace camisole I bought on my last day off — pale sage, thin straps, the kind my heartbeat can't hide. I pulled it on this morning before leaving for the ward, knowing. And when I picture you pushing the fabric aside instead of taking it off — urgent, already breathing hard, leaving half of me covered because neither of us has the patience — I get that hollow, waiting ache between my ribs and lower. I want the risk of it. I want our bodies doing what bodies do and not worrying about the consequence, because the consequence is the point. I want your hand cupping me like you're checking a pulse, thoroughly, like I check my patients, but with your mouth on my neck and your trousers kicked halfway down. I want you to finish inside me and watch me mark tomorrow's column. My gardening hands are steady. My nurse hands are steadier. But right now, holding the kettle, I need yours. Come finish this — before sunrise, before my scrubs come off, while the mint's still on my tongue. Come finish what the chart started.